


Dinner... with Wine and Sitting

by TAHewes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 00:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6682063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAHewes/pseuds/TAHewes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 5 times Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper had dinner, which involved both wine and sitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dinner... with Wine and Sitting: Meal 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be one of those "5 times" stories… just short, little nonsense drabbles for your amusement: Sorry, unedited, so it is all on me.

John Watson, took his wife’s hand across the dinner table of their little house in Kilburn, lifted his eyebrows and communicated something to her silently. Upon receiving a nod of agreement from Mary, he began. 

“Molly,” said John, his eyes alight with something both warm and hopeful, cleared his throat. “Mary and I were wondering…” 

Unfortunately, the moment, anticipated to be a happy new beginning for one, was quickly ruined by an unanticipated deduction from another. 

“He’s going to ask you to be his daughter’s Godmother,” interjected Sherlock Holmes, nonchalantly, while appearing thoroughly engrossed with something on the screen of his phone. “John feels you are a stabilizing influence—most likely a stabilizing influence over me as the child’s Godfather—but, for the child, as well. Mary wants a cheerful, happy person in her daughter’s life; no one vindictive, no one who holds grudges or who seeks revenge, hence why she is asking you, Molly Hopper, and not Janine, which is wise and not altogether surprising considering Mary’s former choice of career.” 

“S-Sorry,” said a confused Molly, blinking. “What?” 

“Ignore that last bit,” added Sherlock, sighing and placing his phone face down on the table next to his untouched glass of wine. He smiled one of his patented, disingenuous grins at Mary and John. “Molly says yes, by the way.” 

Molly, both stunned and flattered, blinked again several times, struggling to come up with a coherent sentence and failing miserably. “I—I…” 

Sherlock, in light of Molly’s momentary inability to utter a series of intelligible words, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and continued with his litany of unwanted deductions. 

“She’s flattered and definitely on the verge of an emotional outburst, especially considering that she is nearly beyond her peak child-bearing years and that this child will likely be the only chance for her to form a bond with an infant who, while not her own, will be as close as—“ 

“Sherlock,” warned John, dangerously. 

The Consulting Detective cocked his head to one side and squinted his eyes in query. “Not good?” 

“Yeah, a bit,” said John, nodding his head in his usual bout with exasperation. 

“Sorry, Molly; skip that last part.” Sherlock’s phone vibrated and he picked it up to look at the screen again, adding, belatedly, “But she still says yes.” 

“If you don’t mind, Sherlock,” said Mary Watson, glaring at the detective, clearly communicating her lack of amusement. “We’d like to hear the answer from Molly’s own lips.” She turned back to her friend. 

“But, you’ll do it, right?” she said, smiling confidently, because she could already see the answer in Molly’s open and artless face. 

“Y-Yes, of course,” Molly said, quickly, dabbing a tear from the outside corner of her eye before everyone (not including Sherlock) noticed. “I have no idea why you’ve picked me, but I would be happy, honoured--.” 

“Right,” exclaimed Sherlock, leaping from his chair, pocketing his phone, and clapping his hands together, delighted that the emotional portion of the evening was finally over. “We should be going, John. Lestrade has a five near Sloane Square, which none of his collection of idiots can possibly solve.” 

“But we haven’t even had dessert!” 

“Gooseberry fool; much too sweet for me and Molly is allergic.” 

“No, I’m not! 

“Just being diplomatic; you’ve put on 3 pounds in the last month.” At Molly’s scandalized face, he turned back to his best friend. “Case, John, case!” 

“You don’t even leave your own flat for a six, Sherlock! Sit down, finish your dinner and stop making up reasons to leave while insulting my wife cooking!” 

“Am I insulting your cooking, Mary?” asked Sherlock, flopping back down in his seat, ungracefully. 

Mary, nodding, said, incredulously, “Yeah; a bit.” 

“Impossible,” said Sherlock, as casually as watching paint dry, “You’ve bought most of this pre-made at Waitrose.” 

Mary huffed and looked heavenward. 

“Have you both thought of a final name yet?” asked Molly, quickly changing the subject to cover up Sherlock’s rudeness. 

Mary beamed. “I’ve always liked Clara.” 

“Nope,” said John, remembering his poor, jilted sister-in-law. 

“Wilhelmina,” said Sherlock under his breath while fiddling with his phone again. 

“Let it go, Sherlock,” sighed John, deeply. “Still not naming our daughter after you.” 

Molly’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Sorry. What?” 

“William. That’s his real name; quite the dark-horse, that one,” nodded Mary in Sherlock’s direction. 

“As if you can talk,” Sherlock replied, smiling at Mary, smugly. 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, added John, “Been his best friend for six bloody years, and I’m only just finding this out myself.” 

“William?” said Molly, making a face. “I mean, William, really?” She sipped her white wine and shook her head and made a slightly incredulous noise at back of her throat. 

Sherlock glanced up to respond, his voice dropping an octave. “Is something wrong with William?” 

“No. Well, not really.” Molly sipped again, thoughtful. “I mean William Holmes is just so—so ordinary--like you should be an accountant or something.” 

“An Actuary,” contributed Mary, snorting. “I’m not even sure I know what a bloody Actuary does, but it’s probably boring.” 

“Or,” said a now animated Molly, “A brush salesman.” 

Mary, snickered. “He sells the type of brushes for washing your back.” 

Molly, warming to the subject, made another, even funnier leap. 

“No, no, toilet brushes!” Molly’s voice then went all sing-songy. “I’d like you to meet my husband, William: he sells brushes... for scrubbing your toilet.” 

Mary, even without the assistance of a glass of wine, lost it and had thrown her head back in laughter, barely able to draw breath. 

Molly, in her silly voice, continued. “William, when you finish your day of selling toilet brushes…” 

“At Tesco—,” shouted Mary, nearly red in the face from struggling to gain oxygen. 

‘’—be a dear and stop off at Sainsbury’s to buy a box of nappies.” 

John, although delighted in both Mary and Molly’s silliness, said, a bit confounded, “But if William already works at Tesco why would he then need to go to Sainsburys? I mean, the employee discount at Tesco alone is bound to be an advantage.” 

Mary and Molly fell all over reach other just at the thought. 

Sherlock, obviously unamused by any and all conversations going on around him, just stared at his best friend, clearly communicating his displeasure with a silent look, the equivalent of: _Shut up, John_. 

“Can you imagine him in his blue Tesco jumper—“ 

“—made of some scratchy, unnatural fibre--.” 

“—with his little name tag, that says William on it?” 

“We get it, Molly!” growled Sherlock, much to John and Mary’s mutual amusement. 

She turned back to him, now beaming. “Now Sherlock,” said Molly, reaching out and touching his hand briefly but soothingly, “that’s a much more interesting name? Can’t picture you shopping in Sainsbury’s or,” Molly guffawed, “buying nappies.” A pause. “Or… changing nappies.” She giggled, took her hand back to lift her glass to her lips, while she stared off into space, lost in a vivid new world of her own creation. 

“Been picturing Sherlock in a lot of scenarios, have you?” asked Mary, quietly, mostly to herself, grinning with all of her teeth in Sherlock’s direction, which he clearly saw and heard and refused to take the bait. 

“Need a bit of a top up there, Molly?” asked John, smiling satisfactorily, leaning forward with a newly opened bottle of Riesling. 

“No,” said Sherlock, snippily, glaring at his hosts, “I think she’s had quite enough!”


	2. Dinner... with Wine and Sitting: Meal 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More food... more wine.

_**NOTE:** My old (and very reliable) Windows 7 computer crapped out after that infamous Windows 10 update debacle at the beginning of May, taking about 50% of this story with it. I figured that I could A) continue to whine about it in the manner of Han Solo whining about the hyper-drive on the Falcon OR, B) do something about it. Believe me, whining was my preferred option because my budget for a new laptop was (is) non-existent. So, with several weeks to finagle the money and another two weeks to find, order, and have a laptop delivered (while using my even older Windows XP machine as a life preserver… (I swear, if we could just go back to XP), and another week of reloading software, passwords, and fonts (OMG, why do I have so many fonts?), I finally have a working computer. I have (somehow) managed to recreate some of this chapter from memory and from the last backup file Windows managed to collect. I maintain that the other version was better, but until I somehow gain a photographic memory, this is will have to do._

_**Foreign language note:** I used Google translate, so, any fubars are mine. The few foreign lines are pretty intuitive, so I’m sure you can figure it out._

\---------------

Molly Hooper had once heard John Watson make the most outrageous statement. He claimed that Sherlock Holmes’ elder brother, Mycroft, was the world’s scariest man. He even went as far as to say that Mycroft Holmes had once sent his big, black, chauffeur-driven car to abduct him off the road, take him to some undisclosed location, where an offer of monetary compensation was made in exchange for casual spying on his younger brother. 

She had listened with a good deal of scepticism. She would not go so far as to call John a liar, but she did know that since meeting Sherlock, John seemed to always find himself in perilous situations and she put it all down to an overactive mind under a great deal of stress. 

She had met Mycroft Holmes on one or two occasions, and although she couldn’t claim to know him all that well, she considered that such a man with his level of personal grooming, bespoke Brigg umbrellas, and expensive Saville Row tailoring, could be nothing but docile and harmless. 

So, when the largest, shiniest, blackest Jaguar Molly Hopper had ever seen in her life rolled up in front of her just as she exited Sainsbury’s, Molly made a silent apology to John. 

The car’s rear window slowly slid down to reveal one Mycroft Holmes staring straight ahead as if he had yet to bother himself to take notice of his surroundings. 

Molly stepped off the kerb, crouched down, and adjusted her body’s position to look in through the open window. 

“Uh, hello, Mr. Holmes?” 

In his own time, Mycroft slowly turned his head to face her, appearing, for all intents and purposes, bored out of his mind. 

“Do get in, Dr Hooper; I only have 10 minutes to spare for you today.” 

Words like: “No one asked you to come” and “wait, how did you know where to find me” and “bugger off” all flitted through Molly’s head, until Mycroft Holmes, in his best snobbish tone, added, “Now, if you please.” 

His driver, obviously not one of those sorts who jumps out to open doors, merely activated the automatic lock, and Molly opened the door for herself. Sliding in to the leather seat— (hmm, heated, nice)-- the refusal to spy on Sherlock was on the tip of her tongue. 

And yet, as his driver eased into afternoon traffic, Mycroft Holmes was the one to surprise her. A favour, he had called it; a promise of a good time, an excellent dinner, a new dress, if she required it, and, “-- back home well before the clock strikes midnight.” 

“Like Cinderella?” she grinned, broadly. 

“I never thought I would have reason to say this,” said Mycroft, “but, Sherlock is correct: jokes really are not your forte.” 

Molly’s lips thinned in exasperation. 

“Show up, be yourself, Dr Hooper. In fact, the more you are yourself the better. And if you agree to no questions asked, I will even let you keep the dress.” 

She was indignant here. “I can buy my own dress!” 

“It is a formal affair at The Swedish Embassy; Prince Harry is scheduled to be there.” 

“Could you get me something in yellow?” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at her rapid change of tune. He removed his mobile from inside his coat, pressed something on the screen before bringing it up to his ear and speaking into it: “Maelstrom is go.” 

He pocketed his phone immediately, and continued. 

“Since there is something of a time-table, my assistant will contact you within the hour with all the necessary arrangements. I expect you to ready for my driver at 6 p.m. sharp, tomorrow evening.” 

Her lips formed into a question, but she stopped herself from asking it when she saw the flash of incredulity come over Mycroft Holmes’ ill-humoured face. 

“Miss Hopper, exactly which part of no questions asked are you having the most difficulty with?” 

”I have to ask one more question, just one.” 

Mycroft sighed tiredly. “If you must.” 

“This isn’t—.” 

She paused and thought for a moment. She didn’t exactly want to say the word “kinky” to the supposed British Government. She had seen the film _Fifty Shades of Grey_ and knew, based on the story, that sometimes powerful men had a certain… proclivity towards kinky things. And she really didn’t want to be part of any weirdness in a game room. 

“It’s not something--” she searched for an old-fashioned word that this Holmes would surely appreciate, “--untoward, is it?” 

Mycroft laid his head back and stared to the car’s roof, whispering something under his breath along the lines of: “How does Sherlock deal with these people” just as the car came to a stop in front of Molly’s block of flats. 

\----- 

The next morning, before Molly had even had her coffee, a woman, by the name of Petra, dressed head to toe in black, along with her blue-haired assistant, with the implausible name of Mario O’Dario, had knocked and pushed their way into her flat well before the appointed meeting time. Petra began yelling something about wanting to see her undergarments before pushing her way into her bedroom, without so much as a by your leave. 

Before Molly could protest, the tone for the rest of the day was set when Mario, suddenly blinding her with the flash from his mobile, exclaimed, “Hastag: UglyJumperPorn” and “My friends will just die when they see this!” 

\----- 

She was picked up, as Mycroft had decreed, at precisely 6 P.M. in another shiny black Jaguar and dropped off at the Embassy at exactly 7. 

After the most tedious day of her life spent with Petra and the horrible Mario, (“UglyJumperPorn is trending!”) Molly had to concede that they knew their business. Her designer gown was Jenny Packham (“It costs what?”) and was such a becoming shade of deep gold that she gladly forgave Petra (and Mario) for everything she’d been put through, even the tiny lacy thong (“Your ghastly granny knickers will ruin the line!”) currently doing strange things to her bum. 

Her name was checked off a list and her bag was thoroughly searched. Molly then handed over her wrap at the cloakroom and walked through the door into a large room full of very posh and important looking people, showing just enough leg to turn several appreciative eyes her way. Glancing about, (“OMG, is that the Mayor talking to the Prince!”) she spotted Mycroft, clad in an elegant tuxedo, standing next to the tallest, most striking woman that Molly had ever seen. 

Mycroft inclined his head to beckon her over, and, (surprise-surprise), he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek (as if he was an _actual_ normal person and they were _actual_ friends) in greeting. 

“You look lovely, my dear.” 

Still reeling from the unexpected kiss, her brow furrowed minutely and she responded. 

“Thank you?” 

Mycroft pressed his lips together and seemed to be struggling to refrain from rolling his eyes. 

“Doctor Molly Hopper, allow me to introduce you to my companion for the evening, Ndidi Mfumbe.” 

“Hello,” nodded Molly, smiling, though still obviously dumbstruck. 

“Hallo,” replied the statuesque Ndidi, dressed in a slinky red gown with a slit up to there (which Molly was certain she had seen on a film star at the Oscars) and tossing back a column of glossy black hair, while looking down on Molly regally. 

Molly, in a moment of uncontrollable curiosity, blurted out a question before she could stop herself. 

“Are you a model?” 

Ndidi, seemingly confused, turned to Mycroft. “Was hat Sie gesagt?“ 

“Sie fragte, ob Sie ein Modell sind,“ said Mycroft, suddenly touching the small of Ndidi’s back to steer her clear of a gentleman walking by who he knew well enough to know that he wouldn’t be able to pass without “accidentally” brushing up against her. 

“Sorry,” she smiled, “Model, nine. But you,“ she paused, searching for the proper words, “Frauline oogly jumper.“ 

Molly gritted her teeth as she listened to Ndidi’s soft giggle, wondering what form of murder she’d have to commit in order to get Mario on a slab in the morgue by morning. 

“Actually,” said Mycroft, recovering quickly from a slight smile that Ndidi’s laugh had created, which seemed to be hurting his face, “Ndidi is the Securities Director at DeuscheBank. We’ve been _friends_ for years.” 

He’d said the word “friends” in the way most people would say “vomit” and Molly was going to call him out on his obvious lie until she just happened to glance down and saw his hand still resting on Ndidi’s back, just above the dip of her gown. Hmm? 

Ndidi turned back to Mycroft and asked, “Was für eine Art von Doktor ist sie? 

Molly, though not fluent in German, caught the gist of the question, sighed and said, “Please just tell her I am a Paediatrician.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and proving that he really wasn’t her friend despite any previous kisses suggesting otherwise, betrayed her at once. “Sie ist ein Arzt der Pathologie.” 

Ndidi, as most people did when hearing what Molly did for a living, said nothing, and just looked at her as if she had just sprouted a second head. Luckily, from the corner of her eye Molly saw a waiter approaching with a tray containing flutes of champagne. Perfect timing. 

“You three look as if you could do with a drink?” said a very deep and familiar voice. 

Molly gasped and turned. “Sherlock? I thought you were the waiter!” 

“It’s the tuxedo; lends anonymity to waiters. If you don’t believe me, ask John: he can’t tell the difference either.” Sherlock suddenly leaned forward to kiss Ndidi’s cheek as if long familiar. 

“Immer noch mit meinum fett bruder?” 

Mycroft’s entire face twisted. “I’ll have you know I’ve lost two pounds.” 

“Gained three pounds, more like. You need to stop indulging in linzer torte—and other German things!” 

“Ich liebe meine big man,” said Ndidi, seductively, moving in closer to slip one finger in-between the buttons of Mycroft’s tuxedo jacket, which immediately made Mycroft’s entire body flinch just as Sir Hugo Fleming, his mortal enemy from the Home Office, approached, his bushy eyebrows raised high at witnessing the intimate scene. To get away from Ndidi’s roving fingers, Mycroft seized Champagne glasses for the both of them and shifted away slightly, only to notice Lady Smallwood from across the room smirking at him. 

Molly, staring, momentarily taken aback at what she was witnessing between the world’s oddest couple, snapped out of it and reached for her own glass. “So Sherlock, what are you doing here?” 

“Oh Molly,” said Sherlock, securing his own glass, and handing the empty tray over to a stunned Sir Hugo. “As usual, you see but do not observe.” 

“What? What is it that I am not observing?” 

Sherlock nodded towards his brother causing Molly to look towards Mycroft once again. Ndidi had moved even closer by now, and had her lips so close to Mycroft’s ear as she whispered into it, that Molly would not be at all surprised if the woman were to take his entire lobe into her mouth right there in front of everyone. 

Mycroft, before he lost all credibility before his peers, cocked his head just so and gave Ndidi such a look that she instantly ceased all flirtations, looking, to Molly at least, a bit disappointed. 

As if greatly putt-upon, Mycroft took a deep, calming breath and straightened himself. 

“I think it’s time we looked for our table. Shall we, my dear?” He held out his arm to his companion. 

It was as if Mycroft’s movements were some sort of silent signal to the entirety of the room. Their group, along with the vast majority of the crowd, moved towards the dining area. With Molly and Sherlock walking behind, Mycroft and Ndidi lead the way. Their progress was slow, it seemed as if many people along the way were very interested in being introduced to Ndidi. And whenever they paused, Molly couldn’t help but notice Mycroft’s hand seeking out the small of Ndidi’s back, his thumb absent-mindedly stroking the exposed flesh there. 

Finally having gained their table, Mycroft was fairly seething. “Oh, for god’s sake, you’d think these people had never met a woman before!” 

”Met a woman, yes,” said Sherlock glancing about the crowd and purposely not looking at his brother. “Expecting to meet a woman on your arm, that would be no.” 

“Pot meet kettle,” smiled Mycroft, smugly. 

Molly, not understanding, furrowed her brows in confusion, her eyes flicking back and forth between the brothers. 

“And the lightbulb moment approaches,” added Mycroft, lifting his flute to casually sip, before scoffing in horror. “They’ve served us an American sparkling wine!” 

Molly, who had been sipping from her glass had thought it was rather good, immediately stopped drinking, suddenly struck. 

“Wait, am I here as Sherlock’s date?” 

By now Mycroft’s attention had moved to the server’s as they began pushing in the food carts. He sniffed, delicately. 

“Chicken. Why is it always chicken at these things?” Mycroft, seeming to have lost all interest, placed his napkin across his lap. “Just for once I wouldn’t mind seeing lamb or even fish.” 

“Oh, brother dear,” said Sherlock still studying the room, “just admit it, you would much rather see cake.” 

And, they were off. 

“Just because you can go a week subsisting on salt and vinegar crisps and cyanide-laced Albanian cigarettes, don’t expect everyone else to.” 

“They are not Albanian cigarettes, Mycroft, they are Armenian!” 

“I thought you said you intended to quit.” 

“I’ll quit when you quit.” 

“I’m not the one who has trouble kicking these sorts of habits.” 

“Says the man who got me hooked in the first place.” 

“Says the man snooping in drawers that don’t belong to you.” 

“Well, brother, dear, I had always assumed that most 16 year old boys would have magazines of half-naked women in their drawers; how was I to know that your only interests at the time where limited to magazines on the subject of Belgian chocolate.” 

Mycroft opened his mouth to make an equally vicious retort but was prevent by a touch to his sleeve. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” said Ndidi, interrupting the escalating fracas between the two. 

Molly, never knowing it was so easy to silence anyone by the name of Holmes, held her breath as Mycroft cocked a superior eyebrow and stared at Ndidi for a long moment, his eyes shifting slightly as if calculating. Coming to some sort of conclusion, he spoke to her slowly and smugly. 

“Am I allowed to say one more thing to my brother?” 

“Be nice, Mike,” said Ndidi, her eyes, flinty. 

“Yes, do be nice, Mike,” said Sherlock, waiting. 

Mycroft Holmes then said the most extraordinary thing. 

“Westminster Dog Show!” 

Molly blinked. “Westminster what?” 

No one answered her because Sherlock had suddenly stood up from his chair. Reaching down, he felt around underneath the seat and ripped away something taped there. 

Ndidi was no less busy; she also stood. The bottom of her gown was abruptly thrown back at the slit to reveal a long shapely leg with a knife holster strapped to the thigh. Propelling herself upwards by using Mycroft’s conveniently placed lap, she stepped on to the table top just as a large man raced by screaming: “SAVE THE WHALES!”, running towards the Ambassador’s table brandishing a menacing looking weapon. 

From Molly’s left, as if in a blur, two charged leads ejected from what turned out to be a taser in Sherlock’s hand and came into contact with the man’s chest causing him to cry out in pain and crumple to the floor. 

Another armed man appeared from a side door. Ndidi jumped from their table top to the neighbouring one, where she brought down her gunman with an accurately thrown knife into the side of the man’s throat, causing him to falter and fall down. 

Molly, although in complete shock, silently analysed the damage professionally. ‘That just missed his jugular!’ 

The last assailant entering the room, had the easiest take-down. Just as the woman ran by their table to finish the work her accomplices failed to do, Mycroft Holmes, stuck his foot out causing the runner to be tripped up, where she landed flat on her face. 

In the pandemonium of security services swarming the room, Mycroft rubbed the area were Ndidi’s heel had dug into his thigh. He sneered, frowned deeply, and exclaimed distastefully, “Leg work!”   
\---------- 

After the room was cleared, and after the would-be eco-terrorists were carted away, and after the profuse gratitude of the Swedish ambassador, Molly Hopper found herself in the unusual position of hosting late-night guests around her dining table. 

In the ride over, Sherlock had complained childishly about having missed the dinner, so Mycroft had performed some sort of miracle and now Chinese takeaway boxes and two nearly empty bottles of white wine littered the table. 

“So, you really aren’t a model, then?” asked Molly, clearly disappointed. 

“Ndidi (the German) or rather, Danielle, the American special agent, as she was really called, just laughed. 

“No, I am definitely not a model. But it’s kind of you to think so. It was all I could do to keep it together when you asked me that!” 

“And I guess you’re not Mycroft’s girlfriend, either?” 

She laughed again, only this time harder. “No, I’ve only just met him.” 

“But you two were so convincing.” 

Mycroft stared at his phone, seemingly absorbed. “It all comes down to training. Ms. Miller came highly recommended for this sort of operation and as you have seen for yourself, for very good reasons. Every look, every movement on her part was highly choreographed to look real, but it was merely theatre.” 

“Are you sure about that?” said Danielle, staring at Mycroft for a long moment, until his eyes looked away from his mobile and directly at her for exactly two seconds before he squirmed in his seat. 

It was dead silence in the room until Molly, sensing a sudden hyperawareness between the two, broke the tension having more to say. 

“But, all that money you wasted on me, Mycroft? I mean, my dress, the shoes, that awful stylist with her awful assistant who kept posting photos of me on Twitter.” 

Sherlock mumbled around his Moo Shu Pork. “Get with the times, Molly; it was SnapChat!” 

Molly just shook her head. “And you, Sherlock,” she said, “you’re full of surprises. If I ever find someone who needs tasering, I know who to ring up.” She then stared off into the middle distance. “But, I still don’t understand,” Molly asked, piecing together the events of the evening, “Why me?” 

”Don’t be stupid, Molly.” 

“How am I being stupid, Sherlock? It was a perfectly reasonable question to ask.” 

Mycroft, impatient with Molly’s continued need for questioning, felt it was down to him to explain everything. 

“Dr Hooper, as I am sure you have observed, my brother does not possess that ability enabling him to work with very many people. For various reasons, which will go unsaid, the British agents available to me for this operation all refused to come near him. This left me with the very small pool of Sherlock’s female associates to work with. Setting aside Mrs Hudson, Mrs Watson, and our mother, Sherlock has had exactly three women in his life who bear any consideration. One of them is dead and one of them dragged his name through the press most unflatteringly. So, this naturally left you, Dr Hooper, to pose as his date for the evening.” 

“Well, nice being asked,” said Molly, sarcastically, glaring at Sherlock. “Even if you had to get you big brother to do it for you.” 

Mycroft smirked. “Come now, Dr Hooper, if there is one woman in the world who could put up with my brother long enough to go on an actual date with him, it could only be the one woman he spends most of his time with.” 

Molly had to laugh at that. She had never thought of it quite that way. She couldn’t resist the opening. She turned to Sherlock and smiled teasingly. 

”Did you hear that, Sherlock; I’m the one woman you spend most of your time with. Should I be flattered?” 

Sherlock, hating anyone to get the better of him, huffed at the indignity of it all, before getting up and stomping his way to the bathroom, where he shut the door loudly, causing Molly to giggle into her wine glass. 

During this explanation, Danielle had been looking back and forth between Sherlock and Molly before catching Mycroft’s eye with a silent, though unmistakable question of her own. He rolled his eyes heavenward and stood. 

“A delightful evening, my dear. Thank you for your hospitality. Your contribution to tonight’s events will be mentioned to very high and important people.” 

Molly, now clearly tipsy, laughed. “What, like the Queen?” 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “What did we say about jokes, Dr Hooper?” 

Danielle also stood. 

“And I must be getting back to my hotel.” Danielle reached for her evening bag and wrap, which Mycroft was swift in assisting her to secure about her shoulders. “Thanks for inviting me over, Molly,” she smiled broadly. “It has been both unforgettable and entertaining.” 

“Come back any time,” said Molly with enthusiasm. “Can’t always promise you international intrigue, but if you ever want to see photos of some really grisly post-mortems, I’m your girl.” 

Danielle’s laughter filled the room as she hugged her. “Never change, Molly.” 

“My driver is outside and you are on my way,” said Mycroft, putting on his overcoat and scarf. “Do let me be of service.” 

“I’m counting on it,” said Danielle, with a saucy look so unmistakable that even Molly, in all her so-called Sherlock-labelled inability to observe, could recognize. 

When they were gone and Molly had closed and bolted the door, Sherlock reappeared and slid back into his chair and resumed eating his food as if he were half staved, the only sound: his knife and fork scraping their way across his plate in the otherwise silent room. 

Molly reached for a wine bottle and drained the last little bit into her glass. Thinking over the entire evening, she sipped thoughtfully for a long silent moment. 

“Well, Sherlock, as the cool kids all say, those two are totally going to hook up later.” 

Sherlock threw his utensils down on to his plate with a loud, angry clatter. 

“Oh, for god’s sake, Molly, I’m eating my dinner!”


	3. Dinner... with Wine and Sitting: Meal 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s note:** Forgive the tardiness. The news has been depressing and it always affects my ability to write. Here is a true drabble since this story was always meant to be a collection of drabbles and not novel length chapters like part two.

Sherlock crouched down and meticulously studied the scene of the crime stoically. His eyes focused on systematically gathering the clues all around him, yet his ears were carefully attuned to the whispered conversation going on behind him. 

“Just got off the phone with Travers,” said Sally Donavan to Greg Lestrade. “He called to check in about that hit and run from this morning. The body has been released to the family and he’s just leaving Barts now. The witness at the scene was able to give him a description of the driver and the vehicle. The little girl was only five years old.” 

“Bloody hell. Who was on duty at Barts?” 

Sally paused. “Dr. Hooper.” 

“Christ.” 

Even though he wasn’t facing him, Sherlock deduced that Lestrade’s face had likely gone very red and that he was probably rubbing his newly shorn head, worryingly. 

“You tell Travers,” fumed Lestrade, angrily, “to keep me posted. When we find the bastard, I’m personally nailing them to the wall!” 

After Donavan left, Lestrade needed a few moments to pull himself together. Once he’d got himself in under control, he sighed deeply and walked over. 

Sherlock stood and began rapidly describing to the Detective Chief Inspector what he had observed within the room. 

“You’ll find that the kidnapper is the ex-husband. He’s jealous of his ex-wife’s new life—of her new partner, as well. The children all like this new man in their mother’s life far better.” 

Lestrade was incredulous here. “They like the new boyfriend better? How on earth--?” 

“The photos! You’d have to be an idiot not to notice. The new man is in almost every single one, even in the children’s bedrooms. He’s taken them to Disneyland Paris, for heaven’s sake! Their own father certainly never did that; far too busy making money.” 

Sherlock binned his protective gloves, put his coat back on, tied his scarf, and turned to leave via the front door. 

“Wait Sherlock, where you going?” asked a dismayed Lestrade, following him out, a half a step behind. 

“I have somewhere else to be.” 

“What do you mean: somewhere else?” 

“The very definition of somewhere else: is a place that is not here.” 

“Don’t you want to be there when we make the arrest?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“But I’m bound to have more questions.” 

“Undoubtedly. However, I’m fairly sure you know how to operate your mobile to ask them.” 

“But Sherlock—“ 

The Consulting Detective chose not to hear him, his mind was far too busy thinking about taking a taxi to the other side of London and procuring fish and chips.

\-----

It took him three rounds of knocking before Molly Hooper finally opened the door. She was wearing tatty grey sweatpants and a faded blue t-shirt which was sporting a cracked and pealing logo from her father’s old auto garage business. Her hair was nearly dry, but obviously un-brushed. He sniffed. Plain soap and no trace of the expensive body lotion she treated herself to when she was happy. She was clearly not herself. 

“Sherlock? What are you—?“ 

He pushed his way through. “Finally! I thought I was going to have to use my key.” 

“Key? What do you mean—?“ 

“Ignore that last bit.” He began his observation of the room: Handbag carelessly discarded by the front door; today’s clothing in a heap in the hall near the bathroom; no food smells, so, no cooked dinner or takeaway in the kitchen; telly not on. She was obviously prepared for bed even though it had only just gone 6 P.M. 

“Look, Sherlock, now is not a good—“ 

“Need a bolt hole for a bit. And this time you don’t have to feed me, I’ve brought my own dinner.” He brandished a large, greasy brown bag. “Fish and chips; I’m even willing to share; I’ve been given extra portions.” 

He deposited the oily bag on top of a stack of fairly new magazines on the coffee table, before shrugging out of his coat, gloves, and scarf, and throwing them all on the back of the sofa. 

“Sherlock, I don’t think—“ 

“I’m dodging Lestrade. Domestic kidnapping. A four, if that. He’ll find the children at the seaside with their father having a wonderful time.” Sherlock sat and began unpacking the bag, flattening out the butcher paper and divvying-up the fish and chips into two equal piles. “Now,” he said, clapping his hands together, “What have we got to drink?” 

Molly stood for a moment staring at him. She’d had an _especially_ bad day and suddenly she decided that she really did not have the energy to argue with him. She turned, went into the kitchen, and without even looking, grabbed the first bottle of wine out of the rack she put her hands on. When she walked back into the room, Sherlock’s reaction was instantaneous. 

“Oh for god’s sake, Molly: it’s fish!” 

She looked down, read the label (Zinfandel), turned round, and put the red wine back into the rack. Opening the frig she took out a bottle of white. She wasn’t halfway out of the kitchen when Sherlock exclaimed again. 

“Are we swigging it from the bottle, then?” 

Once back in the main room, she deposited the bottle and one wine glass on the coffee table with a loud thud before sitting down herself, lying her head against the sofa back, folding her arms across her chest, and staring up at the ceiling while Sherlock blathered on. 

“Apparently Graham believes I should do all the work even though his people clearly need the practice.” 

She heard Sherlock twist open the wine, before saying something cutting in order to cement his role as a complete git. 

“Screw top: how charming. And the label says 2 for £10. What, did Tesco have a sale and nobody told me?” 

Molly closed her eyes and silently counted to ten as he poured. 

“Sally Donovan was there; still not talking to me; it’s been a month. As if I’m responsible for her crime scene becoming contaminated. She was the one who bumped into me, I did not bump into her. Going by the two pounds she’s put on this month, she shouldn’t have had that extra-large caramel macchiato with whipped cream to begin with.” 

In a huff, Molly got up to retrieve the remote from across the room. She blindly clicked through the channels while Sherlock continued to both eat and talk endlessly. 

“Mycroft stopped by this morning. Tried to trick me into taking our parents to the theatre when they come up to London next week. As if they haven’t seen ‘The Lion King’ a thousand times already. I got back at him though. Pick-pocketed his phone as he was leaving and bought tickets to ‘Momma Mia’, as well, before messaging my parents that he’d made dinner reservations for three at the Hard Rock Café for the same night. That will teach him.” 

Switching off the telly and throwing the remote aside, Molly rested her elbows on her knees, and grabbed both sides of her head and dug into her scalp with her fingertips. 

“Mrs. Hudson hasn’t brought me my tea for a week now. Keeps going on and on about me being a grown man and being more than capable--whatever that means. She also may have mentioned something about her hip, but by then I put her back on mute. If she’d just take the paracetamol like I suggested, she would be able to go up and down the stairs with no trouble at all.” 

Molly sat up straight, closed her eyes for a minute, breathed in deeply and held it for a moment. But Sherlock would go on. 

“I saw John and Mary yesterday; both looked knackered beyond belief. I have determined that it is all your fault. If you had not chosen to be the most selfish of godmothers and encouraged me to be a better godfather, the Watson’s might have had a bit of a reprieve from staying up with the baby every night.” 

Her fault? Confused, Molly glanced at him quickly before looking away again. 

“To get back into their good graces, I suggest that we turn up on their doorstep tomorrow morning and take the baby for the day. Oh, there’s no need to thank me for having arranged with Mike Stamford for you to have the day off.” 

A day off? She looked at him again, blinking rapidly, trying to understand what he was going on about. 

“We’ll bundle her up in that awful fuzzy outfit with the rabbit ears that everyone likes seeing her in for some reason. If we have her for the day, I would imagine you could hug and kiss her cheeks to your heart’s content. I mean, if you wanted to. I hear that cuddling babies makes people happy. I wouldn’t know having never cuddled with anyone in my life.” 

He knew! He somehow knew about her awful, awful day and had turned up, to do what exactly? Was he trying to--? Make her happy? 

“We’ll take her to the zoo. Oh and we’ll need a picnic lunch, as well. You can pack one in the morning.” 

Molly’s breathe hitched in her throat. Sherlock: the irritating, selfish… loveable… git. 

“Our god daughter will spend the morning looking at the penguins, I think. She looks as if she would enjoy the penguins. You look like you would like the penguins, as well. And afterwards we’ll take her to the play area and let her watch all the other _happy_ little children running around and screaming and making entirely too much noise. We’ll call it teaching her to use her observational skills.” 

Molly pressed her lips together to keep her bottom lip from trembling. 

“And then after we’ve eaten the chicken salad sandwiches that you’ve packed, (you do manage a very good chicken salad, by the way) we’ll take her back to Baker street so she can have her afternoon nap down in Mrs Hudson’s flat, while I show you the progress of my latest experiment: I think I may have discovered a new type of ash!” 

Her eyes were already a lost cause: they had already started to sting and grow a bit watery. She refused to look at him, for to look at him at that moment would completely do her in. 

“And as for dinner, I’ll ring Angelo and have him drop off that Fettucine that you like so much.” 

As much as she wanted to in that moment, she determined that she would not cry in front of him. For all of his current kindness to her, tears would only bring about a strong lecture from him on the subject of sentiment and how it would inevitably lead to the destruction of civilized society. So she did the only thing she could do in the moment and likely the one show of emotion from her that he would not reject: she leaned over and laid her head on his shoulder. They were quiet for a long moment before Sherlock chose to speak. Naturally it was to reproach. 

“Your dinner is getting cold.” 

Molly Hopper reached out and picked up a chip. She had no need to look up at him, she already knew he was smiling in satisfaction.


	4. Dinner... with Wine and Sitting: Meal 4

_**Notes:** I am not exaggerating when I say that I re-wrote this chapter 4 times, it getting longer and longer as I went along. The rewriting was the delay… oh, and the laziness. There is one last chapter after this one, then I will change directions and start my Mycroft series! Happy Thanksgiving (if you are here in the States. Grab dessert and settle in, this chapter is a lot of words. (Oh, and fubars are mine.) Enjoy, (though obviously  not the fubars) And before I let you go, a BIG shout out to my wonderful commenters and kudo-ers!!!! You are my sunshine!!!_

\---------- 

The text had simply read: 

`24 George Street, W1`

`Saturday, 5PM`

`Extremely important!`

`SH`

Upon arrival, Molly Hooper glanced up and was suitably awed by the elegant, white, semi-detached townhouse rising above her. She knew absolutely no one who resided in this neighbourhood. And frankly, she doubted that the head of Barts Hospital, herself, could afford to live inside a dustbin on this street. 

However, since it had been Sherlock doing the summoning, she assumed it was for an important reason, even if that reason was only important to him. 

She climbed the three steps to do the knocker and what she got in answer as the door was flung open, startled her to the core. 

“Did you forget your keys again?” said a half-naked, statuesque woman, with tousled black hair. 

“Um… you’re… I mean… it’s you, I didn’t expect… Blimey!” exclaimed Molly, in a shaky voice, totally at a loss for words or sentences any more coherent than that due to the incongruity of Sherlock Holmes and half-naked women not quite coalescing within her suddenly addled brain. 

“Ohmygod! Molly!” said Danielle Miller, the American agent whom Molly had met several months back during that Swedish Embassy business. 

“I—um—hi,“ said Molly, still very much stunned. 

“I thought you were--” cried Danielle, equally stunned. Though certainly naked underneath it all, she was _somewhat_ covered in a man’s light blue, pin-striped dress shirt, which she was bunching up the front of with the fingers of one hand, while tugging down the part covering her backside, unsuccessfully, with the others. 

“What are you doing here?” They both shouted simultaneously, before they both closed their mouths abruptly, and stared at each other. 

Molly was the first to get some, but not all, of her wits back, while trying to smile and failing. 

“S-Sherlock asked me to come round.” 

“Not possible!” said Danielle, incredulously. 

“Yes, look here, I have his text,” replied Molly, fumbling for her phone from her coat pocket and scrolling through her messages. 

“No, Sherlock could not--this place--.” 

“—is a bolt hole, I thought so; Sherlock has them all over the city. You know, for hiding or for when he needs quiet places to think or to—.” 

“No,” Danielle said slowly, as one talks to a child. “It is not a bolt hole and it is not Sherlock’s. It’s—” she tugged at the shirt once more, lowering her voice to a whisper, “—it’s not Sherlock’s anything.” She then did this thing with her eyes that one does when one doesn’t want to say anything else, especially out loud. 

“Oh,” said Molly, her brain playing to catch up. “OH!” Her free hand flew to her mouth as a sudden, more obvious realization instantly came to the fore. “I—I’ll just be—I’ll—.” Flustered, Molly turned to flee, only to bump into a solid, immovable object blocking her path. 

“You must be Molly,” said an older woman, smilingly, whom Molly didn’t recognize. “And you must be Danielle,” the woman added. She then tipped her head to the right and observed, “--and awfully cold, standing there in the doorway with all this wind.” 

“How do you know my name?” they each said at the same time, alarmed and on their guard. 

“Oh, do forgive me, my dears. My name is Violet Holmes. I’m Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s mother.” 

\-------- 

Somehow or another they had all ended up in the kitchen, Molly carrying in a white bakery box from Harrods and a plastic carrier bag that had been placed in her hands by, from all appearances, a long-suffering cabbie desirous of a quick get-away. Mrs. Holmes continued chattering away while unpacking the rest of the bags. 

“Well, my dears, we’ve been dying to meet you both, but had little to go on in the way of information from the boys. If you know anything about my sons, it’s like prying open oyster shells with those two. Luckily, I have my own ways and my own informants, who are not at all homeless or of the irregular variety.” 

“Informants?” asked Molly. 

“And where did you say Mycroft had gotten himself to, my dear?” 

Danielle seemed shocked to be addressed so nonchalantly by Mycroft’s mother, especially considering her state of undress. 

“Um. Wine store?” 

“Well then, that’s not very far down the road. I’m sure Mike will be home at any moment. And once my husband collects Sherlock from Baker Street, we can all sit down and have a lovely dinner together and get to know one another.” 

Danielle could hardly contain the look of horror on her face at the idea of facing that scenario. She glanced down at herself, mumbled something unintelligible, and scurried away, disappearing through the kitchen door. A moment later, Molly heard her pounding up the stairs followed by a door closing. 

“Well, what are we going to do about this dinner, then? Waitrose does a very good roast chicken, so there’s that done already. What do you say to some fresh veg and potatoes?” 

“That’s—that sounds—nice?” 

“Well then, Molly, may I call you Molly, or do you prefer Doctor Hooper? Why don’t you put that box down over there--lemon tarts--Mycroft’s favourite and no one does them quite as well as Harrods, in my opinion. Get your coat off, wash your hands and you can oversee the potatoes. Mashed, I think, unless you prefer to leave them boiled.” 

“I—um—I…” 

“And we will let Danielle--or does she go by Dani? We’ll let her do the peas and carrots after she has freshened up. I’ll do the dinner rolls, frozen, I’m afraid, and warm the chicken. Oh, dear, Mycroft has one of those strange, foreign ovens which I never know how to work. Do be a love, Molly, and help an old woman with the levers and such.” 

Molly put the bag and bakery box down, walked over, and fiddled with the dials until she saw the oven light up. 

“There! I knew you could do it; everyone says that you are very clever.” 

“Everyone?” 

“Well, you must be clever, being a doctor and all. What are you? A paediatrician or a GP like John? Which University did you attend? My informant never said.” 

“Cam—” she had to clear her throat, “Cambridge.” 

“Ah yes, very clever girl, indeed. Your family must be delighted with all you have achieved.” 

“Yes.” She had no more words; Mrs Holmes did not seem to require them and she very much needed a minute to herself to sort through this very confusing situation. “I’ll be back in a second. Coat. Will just pop out to–to hang up my coat.” 

Mrs Holmes didn’t look up from the lower cupboard she was searching through; she just nodded and Molly made her escape. 

After Molly had hung up her coat, pocketed her phone, and stepped out of the closet, the front door opened to admit one Mycroft Holmes, who, upon seeing her, came to an abrupt halt. 

He stared at Molly in bewilderment for several, very long, seconds, his mouth opening and closing multiple times as if his brain was searching for some sort of question that his mouth was having trouble forming. 

“Miss Hooper?” he finally managed. 

Smiling awkwardly, she dipped her head, suddenly shy of him. 

“Mr. Holmes.” 

He furrowed his brow and glanced over her one or two times more, presumably, Molly thought, trying to deduce her presence. Apparently coming up empty, he posed the obvious question. 

“May I ask how you came to be standing in my front foyer?” 

“Ah. Yes, about that--,” said Molly, looking confused, “—no idea.” 

And, as if on cue-- 

“Is that Mikey?” came a voice from the kitchen that instantly turned _The Iceman’s_ blood cold. 

Mycroft whipped his head around so fast that Molly would not be at all surprised if he developed a neck injury. 

“I’m in the kitchen with my hands full. Do come in to see your old mother.” 

Mycroft suddenly turned back towards Molly, with such a look on his face that Molly had, up to now never thought possible for someone like him: Terror. 

“Molly,” said Mycroft, very slowly and deliberately, his face pale, while shaking his head back and forth, “Please don’t tell me that my mother saw--” 

Molly started nodding her head, very vigorously. “Danielle… in your shirt… half-naked underneath… with after sex hair! No, I won’t tell you that!” 

“What’s keeping you two?” came Mrs Holmes’ impatient voice from the kitchen. 

Before either of them could answer her, Danielle came pounding down the stairs at a near run, her hair damp and slicked back into a messy bun. She was wearing a dress that showed all the signs of being the sort of dress one doesn’t wear out during the light of day, nor when meeting mothers. 

She did not acknowledge Mycroft at all. She just flung open the closet, grabbed her coat and handbag, and headed for the door. 

“Where are you going?” cried Mycroft, his voice near to panic and getting a hold of her elbow. 

“Where do you _think_ I’m going? Away from here!” 

“No. No, no, no, absolutely not!” 

“Watch me,” she said as she made for the door once more. 

“But, you don’t understand. She’s seen you!” 

“Of course she saw me and of course you know perfectly well what I was wearing when you left the house. So, why do you think I’m leaving?” 

“But you can’t go now! If you go now, there will be questions; questions that I am not prepared in the least to answer. If you stay she will be polite. She will be hospitable. If you leave, there will be accusations, recriminations, threats…” 

“Molly love, these potatoes are not going to peel themselves.” 

Molly Hooper could not have been paid to move. She had never thought it possible to see the usually calm and collected (and scary) Mycroft Holmes, the supposed embodiment of the British Government, in such a state: the man actually had fear in his eyes. 

This. Was. Awesome. 

“Do you hear yourself, Mycroft? You sound like you’re afraid of your own mother.” 

“Of course I am!” 

“She wants us to sit down and have dinner.” 

Mycroft eyes quickly shifted back and forth, as if calculating some sort of strategy which would get him out of the fray whole and with the least amount of damage, physical or otherwise. 

“That’s not so bad, then. She loves feeding people up and after she gets one or two glasses of wine in her… no, this could be good.” 

“No, Mycroft, this is not good! Do you see what I am wearing?” 

There was a loud knock on the front door. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, who could that be?” 

“Probably your father and your brother,” said Danielle, sarcastically. 

“Sherlock? Here? Oh, no, no, no, no, this cannot be happening!” 

“Exactly, that’s why I’m going.” 

“You’ll have to go back upstairs. He can’t see you like this. It will be like ammunition: I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“It doesn’t change that fact that this is all I have to wear!” 

“Mr. Holmes,” said Molly, interjecting. “What about one of your t-shirts and a pair of tracky bottoms?” 

Mycroft turned around to look at Molly severely. If he was surprised that she was still standing there witnessing this destressing scene or that she had somehow said something sensible, Molly couldn’t tell. 

“Yes, yes, yes, that could work, indeed, it has to work. My bedroom, bottom drawer, now!” 

“I don’t know, Mycroft—.” 

“Danielle, I beg you, just this one time!” 

Danielle folded her arms across her chest in the universal sign of a woman who was not going to cooperate. 

There was another knock on the door. 

“Look, I’ll do anything you want,” begged Mycroft, again. “I’ll even sit down and watch one of those films you’re always going on about.” 

“There are _four_ of them.” 

Mycroft huffed and pressed two fingers to the centre of his forehead as if staving off a massive aneurysm. 

“Two.” 

The knock on the door grew louder. 

“Shall I get that?” asked Molly, wondering what the form was for answering someone else’s door while they were in the midst of a negotiation. 

“Four!” 

“Oh, for gods sake—alright!” 

“I need to hear the words, Mycroft.” 

“Yes, Danielle, I will--” He paused to shudder “-- _binge-watch_ all four _Hunger Games_ films at once.” 

“Oh, I love those,” said Molly, brightly. 

“I know, right?” exclaimed Danelle. 

Another knock, this time prolonged. 

“Oh, for gods sake!” cried a flustered Mycroft grabbing her coat and bag before she changed her mind and pushing Danielle in the direction of the staircase. “Bottom drawer. Quickly!” 

Danielle looked none too happy, but did as she was bid and hurried back up the stairs. 

A great pounding on the door commenced once more, causing Mrs Holmes to call out from the kitchen once again. 

“Is anyone going to get that?” 

Molly, since she was closest, complied, while Mycroft hung up Danielle’s things and trotted off to the kitchen like the obedient son that he was. 

When she opened the door, it was Sherlock standing there on the front step, alongside a pleasant-looking older gentleman. The man was Sherlock’s height, same wavy hair, though white, but with an air of friendliness in contrast to Sherlock wariness. 

“Oh, hello,” said the senior Holmes, his eyes twinkling, if, Molly surmised correctly, with mischief. 

“Hi. 

“Molly?” said Sherlock, looking over her, trying to deduce her in the same way as Mycroft had done earlier, and equally without success. 

“Oh, you’re Molly?” 

“And you must be Mr. Holmes. I’ve just met Mrs. Holmes. She’s in the kitchen. Making dinner.” 

The three of them then stood there silently staring at each other, blinking. 

“Molly,” said Sherlock, “this is Mycroft’s home.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“And are you now in Mycroft’s employ as some sort of sentry.” 

“Sorry, what?” 

“I think he means, my dear, are you going to invite us in?” asked Mr. Holmes senior, smiling broadly. 

“Oh! Oh, yes, sorry. Yes, of course.” 

They came into the house. Sherlock did not remove his coat as first; he just glanced around slowly, observing and, strangely, sniffing. Mr. Holmes started to remove his coat and Molly moved to help him. 

“Molly,” said Sherlock, “you don’t use Rose 31 soap.” 

“At forty quid a bar, I should hope not.” Molly opened the closet door and hung up Mr. Holmes’ coat. “I think we had better go to the kitchen; I’m supposed to be peeling potatoes.” 

“Molly,” asked Sherlock, “exactly why are you here?” 

“I said: helping. Oh, and I got your text to come.” 

“I sent no text.” 

“Yes, you did, I still have it on my phone. Do you want to see it?” 

“I sent no text because I’ve misplaced my phone and have been with my father most of the day.” 

“No, look here—” Molly reached into her pants pocket to produce her phone. “—you even signed it: see, S.H.” 

Sherlock read the message, gave Molly her mobile back, before turning to his father and holding out his hand. Mr. Holmes the elder looked remarkably guilty in that moment, before pulling a cell phone from his cardigan pocket. 

“Not your fault, Molly, you were deceived by the other S.H. in the Holmes family.” 

“What?” 

“It was time you were properly introduced to my father, Doctor Molly Hopper meet _Siger_ Holmes, the supposed dumb one.” 

Sherlock removed his coat, gloves, and scarf, tossed them carelessly across the hall table, and walked towards the kitchen, his father and Molly following behind. 

“So,” said Molly still a bit confused, “You sent the text to invite me to dinner. Why?” 

“We wanted to meet you. And Danielle. I thought I was being remarkably clever by stealing his phone; had a bit of help with the other stuff, though.” 

“Mary talks too much,” said Sherlock. 

“And your mother had help, as well.” 

“Anthea,” added Sherlock, “afraid of Mummy, too.” 

Hearing that when they entered the kitchen, Violet Holmes remarked, “Such a lovely young woman, your Anthea; so smart and so very helpful. You should give her a pay rise, Mike.” 

“People don’t receive pay rises, Mummy, after people have been sacked for disloyalty and blabbing.” 

“Molly love,” said Mrs. Holmes, ignoring her peevish son, “you can get started on the carrots; I’ve got Mycroft doing the potatoes. Sherlock can shell the peas.” 

“What’s Danielle going to do?” asked Sherlock, testily, causing Molly to look up, wondering how on earth he’d deduced that. 

“She’ll do the sauce,” said Mrs Holmes, “Sauces need a woman’s delicate touch.” 

For Sherlock, such an opening was irresistible. “Does she have one of those, Mycroft?” 

Mycroft silenced him with one dangerous look, effectively communicating that his brother was teetering on a precipice. 

“Where do you want me, Mummy?” asked Siger. 

“Drinks, I think. Nothing like a cocktail to build up our appetites.” 

All were silent for a moment as everyone got down to their assigned tasks, until Mycroft, obviously having built himself up into a snit, could not hold it in any longer. 

“It’s not that I don’t enjoy these _family dinners_ , but, in future, a little notice ahead of time would not go amiss.” 

“And have you smuggle the poor young woman down the back stairs. If you wish to keep your girlfriends a secret, Mycroft,” said Violet, “in future, I suggest you don’t turn up for lunch with your mother smelling of Chanel No. 5.” 

Mycroft looked uncomfortable for being so seen through. He stood up a little straighter and breathed slowly and deeply through his nose, resolving to re-double his efforts, in future, to be a little less transparent, especially around his mother. 

“I wasn’t _hiding_ anything, exactly. I’m only saying that there is a time and place for everything. And for your information, Danielle is not my--” 

“Danielle is not your what?” said the very person, standing in the kitchen doorway, now wearing a black and red track suit. 

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Mrs. Holmes, “Come in and meet my husband, Siger. I would tell him what you do for a living, but Anthea wasn’t particularly forthcoming with that information, so I suspect we aren’t to know. Can you manage a white wine sauce for the chicken?” 

“Shallots or garlic?” she asked, smiling broadly, while shaking the elder gentleman’s hand, but giving Mycroft a look that clearly said that they would be having words later. She removed a saucepan from the pot rack to get started. “I’m pretty good with sauces; learned it at the CIA.” Everyone stopped and stared at her in silence at her admittance. “The Culinary Institute of America,” she added, laughing nervously, only to be joined in by the Holmes parents. 

“Oh, I like her, Mike; she’ll do.” 

“Do you hear that, Mike?” said Sherlock, smugly. “She’ll have the Banns read in church tomorrow morning.” 

“Shut up, you,” cried Mrs. Holmes. “And we’d like to eat the peas with our dinner tonight, Sherlock,” added Violet, seeing the three empty peapods discarded off to the side. 

“I’ll do it,” volunteered Molly, stepping in to rescue him, as usual. “I’ve finished the carrots, let me just get them in the pot first.” 

“Excellent knife skills, Molly; quick work, unlike Mycroft over there,” said Violet, seeing enough of the perfectly cut orange cubes to warrant the praise. 

“She’s a pathologist, Mummy. Her knife skills are excellent only because she cuts up people for a living. Where do you think I get all those spare hands and jars of eyes?” 

Violet blinked several times, obviously trying to resolve this new information in her head. 

Molly gave Sherlock a look the clearly said: not now, especially while preparing food! 

“So,” said Mrs Holmes, deciding she could handle this new revelation. “You and Molly seem to have a great deal in common, then. How lovely.” 

“I guess she’ll do, as well,” said Mycroft, under his breath, not looking up from the potatoes he was slicing slowly and unskilfully. 

Sherlock huffed and turned his head away in a strop. 

“Sherlock, stop sulking and go and help your father with the drinks tray.” 

“Oh bugger,” Mycroft shouted when his cutting board slipped off the wet counter taking half of his potatoes with it. 

Danielle and Molly, over by the hob, were looking towards both Sherlock and Mycroft, whispering and quietly laughing at what ridiculous little boys they had both suddenly turned into. 

“What are you two giggling at over there?” asked Mrs. Holmes, seeing the two women laughing with their heads together. 

“Nothing.” They chorused together, almost innocently. 

“Leave the girls alone, my dear; when you get together, you and your sister Rose are just the same,” said Siger, handing his wife a G & T and his eldest, a Whisky, (which he drained immediately) before taking over the potato chopping duty from Mycroft silently and without asking. 

Sherlock handed Danielle a Dirty Martini with three olives, which earned him a quizzical look, and a Ginger and lime was handed to Molly. 

“Yes,” said Violet, seizing the opening. “Speaking of your Aunt Rose, it would seem that your cousin Cecelia has, once again, found herself—” 

“I knew it,” cried Sherlock, whipping around and pointing his finger at his mother accusingly. “I knew what this was all about as soon as I smelled the soap in the hall. This is about grandchildren again!” 

“It is not about grandchildren.” 

“Oh really, then please, please, please, tell us all about it, then?” 

“I was just going to say—” 

“Yesss?” 

“I was just going to say that this makes Cecelia’s third. And her husband, Nigel—” 

“Idiot,” said Sherlock.” 

“--found them a lovely and large new house near Cheltenham very near your Aunt Rose. And the Emerson’s are selling their cottage just down the lane from us—” 

“--and we thought we might buy it,” chimed in Siger, “and fix it up, because it’s perfect for anyone who wanted to come for a visit—” 

“--and stay—with their family—in all those spare bedrooms.” 

“Still about grandchildren,” said Sherlock, dismissively. 

“Undoubtedly,” added, Mycroft, placing the cool crystal glass against his forehead. 

“Once again, Mummy, you see but you do not observe. Molly is not my girlfriend. Girl, yes; friend, yes. The end. So, your quest to repopulate the Earth with little Holmes’ via Molly Hooper’s womb is an exercise in futility.” 

Molly felt her cheeks grow warm. She turned away at that to finish shelling the peas. She wasn’t hurt by his words, exactly, but it didn’t mean that she enjoyed hearing them, especially when his words were accompanied with so much venom. 

“Oh. I—I just thought--” 

“No, you didn’t, did you?” Sherlock snapped. 

“Sherlock!” said Molly, aghast, clearly disappointed in him for speaking to his mother in such a way. 

“No, Molly, dear; he’s correct. I didn’t think this through. I should apologize to you. And to you Danielle. I was just so certain this time and I so wanted—” 

Mrs Holmes turned her face away and sniffed delicately, while quickly dashing a tear away. She sighed deeply and Siger came over and placed a supportive arm around his wife’s shoulders, and looked at both his sons, sadly. 

“Why do you both have to always be cross with your mother; she only has the best of intentions.” 

Mycroft had the decency to look chastened, however, since emotionally fraught scenes were not in his capacity to deal with, he merely straightened his shoulders and stepped from the room, making a feeble excuse to be away. 

“I have an important call to make. I will be in my office.” 

“And I have a few informational texts to send off to Mary Watson, to prevent her from making additional presumptions,” added Sherlock, following his brother out. 

Molly and Danielle stood by silently. That both Mycroft and Sherlock could both be so dismissive of their mother’s feelings for her concern for their future welfare alarmed them to the highest degree. 

As she bent over the counter, Violet’s shoulders shook violently, obvious to them both that she was sinking in despair… that was, until both elder Holmes’ turned around… laughing their heads off, unable to catch their breath. 

“Did you see Mycroft’s face?” chuckled Siger, near hysteria. “That will teach him.” 

“I thought the vein in Sherlock’s neck would burst!” 

They then carried on for a solid minute; struggling to keep it all in, only to dissolve into fits of giggles once more, having trouble holding themselves upright from laughing so hard. 

“This has to be the strangest family I’ve ever met,” said Danielle, leaning in to whisper to the equality dazed pathologist. 

“You’ll get no arguments from me,” added Molly. 

Violet eventually calmed herself and turned to the two women. 

“I really must apologize to you both,” said Violet, wiping her eyes with a paper towel. “I know it is absolutely unforgivable to involve you girls in these family theatrics, but I do have my reasons. Now, if you can bear with us just a little while longer, you will have your questions answered before the end of dinner and no harm done. Mycroft and Sherlock always seem to forget who the real mastermind of this family is.” 

Siger, grinning, pointed at Violet. 

“Now, can you girls handle the rest of the dinner from here?” asked Siger. “My wife and I have one final Oscar winning performance to set in motion in the dining room.” 

Not waiting for an answer, the two elder Holmes dashed out. 

Danielle creased her brow. “What’s was that all about?” 

“No idea,” replied Molly. 

\---------- 

Molly brought the vegetable bowls into to the dining room and set them on the middle of table, followed by Danelle with the platter of carved chicken. 

Mrs Holmes looked up as if to say something, but Danielle stopped her. “The rolls are just about ready, and I’ve finished the sauce. Stay right there and enjoy your drink, we’ll get the rest. “ 

Molly was busying herself by making room for the gravy boat and the bread basket, when she glanced down to the table top and counted seven place settings instead of six. She pointed. 

“Seven?” 

“I think it’s time to call the boys in, Siger,” said Mrs Holmes. 

Molly continued to stare at the place settings. 

“Are you expecting someone else?” she asked. 

Violet reached out and squeezed Molly’s hand, beaming mischievously. “Patience dear; all part of the plan.” 

The three Holmes men entered, Mycroft looking for Danielle, only to be distracted by a loud knock on the front door. 

“Who on earth could that possibly be?” said Mycroft, irritably. 

“I suspect it’s our last guest,” said Siger. “I’ll just get the door.” 

Both Sherlock and Mycroft turned to the table, counting the places and quickly making their deductions. 

“It’s just as you said, Mikey,” replied Violet, grinning as if a cat with all the cream. “This is a _family_ dinner, after all.” 

Mycroft, already coming up with the answer, just stood there looking horrified. 

“Tell me that you have not invited _him_ here, in my home?” 

Sherlock, always a tick or two behind his smarter brother, suddenly frowned, unhappy. 

“Oh, for god’s sake, Mummy!” shouted Sherlock at the top of his lungs. 

Danielle came in carrying the last the dinner. “What now?” she asked Molly, creasing her brow. 

Molly took the rolls out of her hands, replying, “At this point, I’m just going with the flow.” 

“Look who I’ve found,” boomed Siger, excitedly. “Late as usual.” 

“Mummy!” cried a tall man, coming in the door. “Your favourite son has returned!” 

Violet’s entire face blossomed into an enormous smile, her arms thrown up in delight to pull him into a hug. 

“Sherrinford! You naughty, naughty boy.” She then playfully smacked him on the back of the head. “Coming late so you would not have to help with the dinner, I’ll wager.” 

“Now Mummy, if I came early, I wouldn’t have had time to stop for these.” He thrust a large bouquet of dark pink roses into her arms. 

“Foolish boy to spend all this money on you Mama, but thank you, dearest.” She stood on her toes to kiss him before placing the flowers on the side board. 

Molly stood there, open mouthed, staring into the face of one of the most handsome human beings she had ever seen… living or dead. He had the same dark hair and tall build as both Sherlock and Mycroft, though he was a little more muscular in the chest. His eyes were a piercing grey, surrounded by thick, dark lashes; the five-o’clock shadow only added to his dark, good looks. 

Danielle, pleasantly surprized and now grinning stupidly, elbowed Molly in the side. 

“Molly, Danielle, come and meet our other son. Sherrinford, this is Danielle Miller, all the way from America and Doctor Molly Hopper, from right here in London. 

His 1000-watt smile quite blinded them, as he looked over them both appreciatively. 

“My brothers have girlfriends?” he questioned, incredulously, with just a hint of mockery behind his twinkling eyes. 

“Oh no, dear,” said Mrs Holmes, mischievously, happy to make this particular disclosure. “I have been led to believe that they are both very single and very much available.” 

Mycroft displeasure at that statement was apparent to anyone who had bothered to look his way. No one was. 

“Better and better,” said Sherrinford, his eyes briefly taking in the astonished faces his brothers. “Far too beautiful and far too interesting for the likes of those two.” 

Molly and Danielle were both charmed: like two young school girls delighted to meet a Disney prince in person. 

“So,” said Molly, giddy and suddenly feeling very brave and bold. “You’re Sherrinford Holmes? And you’re, what, the middle brother? I never knew; Sherlock never said.” 

“Is that why you’re bouncing on your toes, Molly, like a puppy?” said Sherlock, with a sneer. 

Sherlock’s comment was easily ignored. 

“I’m the brother no one talks about or wants; always turning up at the worse times, like a bad penny.” 

“Well, I want you—no, that’s not--what I meant to say--I’m so happy to meet you, in this good time--definitely not a worse time—.” 

“You should probably stop talking now, Molly,” said Sherlock, predictably. 

“No, no,” said, Sherrinford, smiling broadly; “Keep going, Molly: I like the way you talk.” 

Somewhat embarrassed, Molly said, “Sherlock always says that I talk too much.” 

“Molly, take it from me, never listen to anything Sherlock says; always been an idiot, that one.” 

Molly giggled. 

“Why are you here?” asked Sherlock, aggravated to the highest degree. 

But Molly wasn’t finished in expressing her pleasure. 

“I can’t believe it—I just can’t believe it--another Holmes brother; I’m just so happy to meet you, Sherrinford.” 

“We heard you the first time, Molly,” said Sherlock, his annoyance increasing. 

“Now Molly, this will never do.” Sherrinford leaned in closely to whisper into her ear in his deepest voice, although everyone could hear him perfectly well. “All my special friends call me Ford.” 

“All my special friends call me Ford,” Sherlock mimicked in a high, whiney voice, irked by a sudden uncomfortable feeling in his chest he could not quite name. 

Molly’s cheeks pinked charmingly, and she looked down, smiling to herself, butterflies fluttering in her belly. 

“I can’t believe they let you out?” cried Mycroft, outraged. “Why did they do it? Why wasn’t I informed?” 

“Mycroft, you’re giving the young ladies a very bad impression of me. Do you think you can hold off your interrogation until after I have had something to eat?” He turned and clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “Now, Mummy, darling, I am absolutely starving.” 

“Of course you are, my dearest. Pour the wine, Siger.” 

Siger had opened a very expensive bottle of white wine that Mycroft had just brought home from the wine shop, a wine Mycroft had meant to share only with Danielle and not with his jail bird of a brother. 

Sherrinford chose the middle chair along one side of the dining room table and Molly and Danielle hurried over to sit on either side of him. After Siger distributed the wine glasses, the elders took the seats at the head and foot of the table, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock to sit opposite their brother, looking on, darkly. 

Suddenly inspired, Danielle stood and took up the bowl of potatoes. “Potatoes, Ford?” 

“Chicken?” asked Molly, following suit. 

He nodded and both ladies filled his plate generously. 

Looking heavenward, Sherlock had to roll his eyes at that. “Oh, lord.” 

Ford leaned back in his seat, pleased to have both women’s attention showered upon him. 

“Still doing your detective thing, Wills? Still seeking world domination, Mike?” 

“Still plundering the high seas, Ford?” said Sherlock, saying the name Ford as it was some sort of nasty infection. 

“You make me sound like a pirate.” Ford turned to Danielle. “Do I look like a pirate to you?” 

Danielle giggled. “Oh no, not a pirate, much too handsome to be a pirate.” She giggled again, not quite sure what she was giggling about. “Sauce? I made it myself.” 

Mycroft placed his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands and groaned loudly. 

Danielle poured the sauce while Molly served him the peas and carrots. Ford couldn’t help himself and winked at his younger brother, causing Sherlock to grit his teeth. 

The girls then served the Holmes parents before returning to their seats; Mycroft and Sherlock were forgotten. 

“So, Ford, you’ve been… away?” asked Molly, excitedly, earning another scowl from Sherlock since she had set the platter of chicken too far away for him to reach. 

“Not away, away, as my elder brother would have you believe. Detained is the more accurate description. My ship ran into a spot of bad luck—” 

“—a tropical cyclone after the harbour master told you specifically about the predicted bad weather,” said an angry Mycroft. 

“We then had engine trouble—” 

“—ran out of petrol and the money to pay for it.” 

“--and drifted out of international waters into the hands of some not so friendly foreign sailors.” 

“—after they told you several times to cease and desist your _activities_ and prepare to be boarded.” 

“-- and no one,” he glanced to Mycroft, “of any political influence or brotherly concern to rescue me.” 

“Oh, what a shame,” said Danielle, feeling quite badly for him, causing Mycroft to cross his arms and roll his eyes. 

“Don’t be,” said Ford, the corner of his mouth lifting, charmingly. “The detention facility had Wi-Fi and tennis courts.” 

“May I ask where were you?” asked Molly, curious. 

“Somewhere where the women aren’t as lovely nor the company as delightful as you two.” 

Flattered, Molly and Danielle both giggled at that. Mycroft and Sherlock glowered, each having heard quite enough _giggling_ to last them a lifetime. 

“And now that I am back in the bosom of Mother England, I am up for a bit of fun. I’m dying for an evening out with some dancing. Might you ladies know of anyone who’d take pity on a broken down old sea captain and give the poor chap an enjoyable night on the town?” 

Molly piped up instantly. 

“There’s a pub we all go to after work in Camden Town. They have live music on Saturday’s; we can all go there. Oh. But I’ve got to go home and change first.” 

“I’d have to change, as well,” added Danielle. “And my hotel is in the opposite direction.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got a car and driver, then. Sorry, my dear brothers; only room for three in the car or I’d invite you along.” 

Mycroft wasn’t having any of it. 

“I’m sorry to say, you will be sadly disappointed, brother mine. It’s Danielle last night in town and she seems to have forgotten that we have already made plans for the evening,” said Mycroft, with all the righteous indignation of a man used to having world leaders cowering at his feet. 

“And Molly will not be going either. She has to be up early for—for—things.” 

“Things?” snorted Molly, incredulously. “I have no idea what your brother is going on about, Ford.” 

Danielle added, “And I’m not sure why Mycroft thinks he has any claims on my time. I am certainly going out dancing with you and Molly tonight. I can sleep on the plane tomorrow.” 

“Well then, ladies, it’s decided. Eat up, the night is young.” 

Molly and Danielle turned to their dinners and ate with gusto. Ford, triumphant, looked across the table into the shocked faces of both Sherlock and Mycroft. He smirked, smugly. 

Violet and Siger smiled at each other, extremely pleased that their masterful plan had had met with such success. Satisfied with the wonderful outcome, they both raised their wine glasses high and toasted each other in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**After notes:** I have no idea who can play the handsome Sherrinford. If Tom Hiddleston floats your boat (as many have wished) then go ahead and envision him. Though very handsome, his kind of handsomeness is not to my taste. I can almost see Aidan Turner in the role… but only if he can keep his  Ross Poldark scar._


	5. Dinner...With Wine and Sitting: Meal 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: This is the final chapter. I know, I know, it was a long time coming. However, I was far too angry after viewing Season 4 to finish this and, for a while, I was pretty much done with all things Sherlock. But now that I am calm--8 months later—and since I want to write more thing here, I didn’t want to have the reputation on this board as an author who never finishes stories. So, I sucked it up. Anyways, I have decided that Season 4, in my own personal head-canon, does not exist… it was nothing but a bad dream… Bobby Ewing style!
> 
> \-----  
>  **Trigger warning:** There is one allusion to sexual violence against a woman. I am in no way making light of such a horrible situation. It is mentioned by a person in their official capacity as a member of the police. No sexual violence takes place in this story.

  
*****  


“Of course,” said John Watson, “Mary thought it was heat rash, but after I reminded her that I am the actual medical professional of the family, with the license and training and all, she finally saw what I was saying and accepted my preliminary diagnosis. Of course, after the tests came back, it did turn out to be a heat rash. Which, by the way, is very easy to confuse with dermatitis: the rash is very similar. So, Mary was right, as usual.” 

Sherlock Holmes pulled the blue fabric tighter, wrapping his dressing gown around himself before turning over onto his right side to face the back of sofa. 

“And then, in the midst of dealing with all that, Mary thought we’d have to postpone our trip due to her itchiness and discomfort, but Mary seems to forget that I can prescribe things, and we picked up the cream from the chemist. So, there was no need to exchange the tickets. We leave on Thursday morning, as planned, although I still say we could have taken the afternoon train and still been there in good time. But, as usual, Mary was right. Leaving in the morning will give us time to settle in and that way we won’t be so rushed. What I really think is going on is that Mary wants Harry and me to have a chance to talk things through. She’s made a lot of progress, but it’s not as if I can suddenly trust my sister with the baby for more than a day on her own.” 

Sherlock rolled over onto his back, sighed deeply, and flung his right arm over his eyes. 

“And then, this morning, Mary said she needed another go at the shops--as if she and Rosie don’t have enough outfits already--so, since I was nearby and at a loose end, I had time to stop in at Barts to see Stamford. Oh, and I ran into Molly.” 

That got his attention. He lifted his head and stared at his best friend, his lips moving slightly as if having difficulty forming words. 

“So she’s—she’s--” 

“Back—yeah. Had a great holiday. Well, technically, it was the training course first, and then the conference, and then the actual holiday: told me all about it during lunch. Quite the world traveller, now. I always say doctor’s need to take sabbaticals every now and then: keep their skills sharp and their minds open to new things. I might do it myself next year or the year after, you know, after Rosie’s is a bit bigger. She’s quite changed. Molly, that is, not Rosie. Looks different. Pretty. Well, she’s always been pretty, but now I see more confidence there. Mary says she’s probably met someone... a fella, I mean. And, you’re not going to believe it: she’s cut her hair and changed the colour. Looks great, by the way. I wouldn’t be surprised, at all, if another hospital doesn’t snap her up, especially with all these new techniques she’s learned. If not a different hospital, then a new man in her life probably will. Mark my words.” 

That did it, that propelled him off the sofa… for the first time in weeks. The dressing gown was flung off and he dashed into his bedroom. John heard him fumble around, only to come out two minutes later dressed impeccably in a clean suit and with his purple shirt on underneath. His coat on, and with his scarf tied about his neck, he was out the door half a second later without so much as a backwards glance. 

John texted Mary. 

`Perked up as soon as he heard her name. That got him off the sofa. Of course, you were right, as usual`

***** 

Sherlock raced down the corridor, only slowing his pace when he reached the morgue. Collecting himself, he took a deep breath. Then another. Schooling his features, he pushed through the door. 

He stopped. He looked left. He glanced to the right. He sagged. 

She wasn’t there. 

Ah! Lab! 

He made for the stairs, taking two at a time. Reaching the door, he took a deep breath, then another and entered, finding that room deserted, as well. 

“Oh, for god’s sake, where is she?” he groused, into the empty room. 

“Where’s who?” said Molly Hooper, silently coming through the door behind him, carrying a large box full of random items. “Because if you are looking for Doctor Fuller he won’t be in until half-five.” 

Sherlock, processing her new appearance, stood there and blinked rapidly. 

Molly brought her leg up to help balance the heavy box. “Since I’m here now, he’s gone back to the night shift.” 

“So—” said, Sherlock, nodding his head, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. “So, you’re back?” 

“That’s some world class detective work, right there.” 

A little taken aback by her sassy tone, he clarified himself. 

“I mean. I saw John. He _may_ have mentioned something about you being away. Not that I was paying attention. He talks so much. About Mary. And the baby. And trains.” 

Sherlock was blocking her way. “Do you mind?” 

“Oh sorry. Let me take that for you.” 

Molly’s brow crinkled as he tried to take the box from her hands, causing a momentary tug of war. Sherlock was helping. He never helped. Obviously, he wanted something. 

She barely succeeded in tamping down the annoyed tone in her voice when she said, “Whatever it is you need Sherlock, it’s my first day back; give a girl a chance to get her bearings.” 

He’d finally succeeded in getting hold of the box and the momentum caused him to stagger backwards a step or two. 

“I don’t _need_ anything,” Sherlock said, mildly offended. “I’m currently performing an experiment at home. Analysing the properties of long-term coffee coagulation. Black coffee. Coffee with cream. Cream and sugar.” He set the box down on the work bench. “You never know when someone’s innocence can be proven by a discarded Costa coffee cup. You’ve done something different to your hair.” 

Molly flinched at the sudden change of subject. “Cut it,” she said, bringing her hand to the back of her neck, her fingers grazing the short hairs there. “It was very hot in California. Peter said—.” 

“Peter?” 

“Yes, this nice chap who cut my hair—American--said it made me look ten years younger.” She giggled. “I don’t know about all that.” 

She started pulling things from the box, organizing and sorting her lab supplies back into order, just how she liked it. 

“I –uh—the colour— “ 

“Jeremy said—“ 

“Jeremy?” Sherlock asked, a little incredulously. 

“Yes, the colourist, put in a few highlights—it’s meant to look as if I’ve spent my holiday at the seaside—which is funny because I was at the seaside. Now that I think about it, I probably could have saved myself the hundred-quid by letting the sun lighten it naturally.” She turned away and started fiddling with one of the microscopes, looking through the viewfinder and turning the knobs. “I always have to recalibrate these things when I come back from anywhere.” 

“So, California?” 

“Sorry?” 

“The seaside—in California? You went to the seaside in California?” 

“Heavens, no,” she said, stepping over to the chemical storage area to see what needed ordering. “Not nearly enough time for that between my class and the medical conference I attended. And then there were all the events and dinners and such. People always think that there’s all this extra time to have fun at conferences, but there really isn’t.” 

“I thought you said—“ 

“Oh, I meant the seaside in Virginia. Darius invited—x” 

“Who the hell is Darius?” he said a little sharply, only to change tack a second later to something like nonchalance. “I mean—Darius?” 

“Danielle’s twin brother--Navy Seal, I think, or something equally mysterious that I wasn’t meant to know--has a house right on the coast. I was visiting Danielle in D.C.—which reminds me, your brother was such a nuisance: calling and texting and sending flowers… basically begging--but Danielle says she’s done with him. So, to get away, we all drove down to the seaside for the week. It was amazing. I must have eaten my weight in shrimp and strawberry ice cream. He spoiled us rotten. Darius, I mean, not Mycroft.” 

She collected a few notebook binders out of the box and walked off. 

Sherlock was still considering this Darius person and wondering how he could hack the American government to see who this Darius _really_ was (Navy Seal: _right!_ ) and almost missed the fact that Molly had left. Back in the corridor he ran to catch up, nearly colliding with her when she stopped suddenly to turn and look at him. 

“Was there something you wanted?” 

“Yes—no—why do you ask?” 

“Because you’re acting very strange.” 

He snorted and rolled his eyes and laughed uneasily. “Strange? Hardly.” 

“You say you don’t need or want anything?” 

“Nope!” 

“You say you’re working from home. You keep asking all these questions. And you’re following me.” 

“I wasn’t following—“ 

With one hand, Molly gestured from the closed door at the end of the corridor to the place where they were currently standing, giving him a look that clearly said: you’re following me. 

“I was just walking… here… in the corridor… because that is where one walks--to—to get to places.” 

Molly made a sceptical sort of noise at the back of her throat and glanced over him quickly, immediately gaining clarity. “Oh, my god! You’re unbelievable! Out with it, Sherlock, it’s obvious that you are plotting.” 

“So now I’m plotting? You’ve done nothing but snap at me since I arrived. Clearly being around American’s has done wonders for your personality.” 

“First off: rude. And secondly, there are better ways to ask for help or get what you need or whatever this is that you’re doing, without resorting to scheming.” 

Sherlock scoffed several times. “First I’m plotting and now I’m scheming: as if I have the time to do anything else. Lestrade has been calling me daily, begging me to help with all these cases. Lots and lots of cases.” 

“And that’s called fibbing.” 

“Am not!” 

“John and I had lunch with Greg today.” 

“Who?” 

“He said he hasn’t seen or talked you.” 

“No wonder London is in the state that it’s in when the police have all the time for in the world for lunching and gossiping. Doctors, apparently, aren’t any better.” 

“Still rude. And it was a quick word at Pret, Sherlock; barely time enough for a sandwich and coffee. Unlike you, none of us have time for laying about all day with Mrs Hudson bringing us pots of tea.” 

“What about dinner then?” said Sherlock, abruptly. 

“What about dinner?” asked a puzzled Molly. 

“I mean.” He cleared his throat. “I mean. That’s what dinners are for. Conversation. Long ones. A chance to catch up. To tell your friends what you’ve been up to during your travels. That’s what people do. Men and women. Or so I have been told.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, shifted from one foot to the other, and was not quite able to meet Molly’s eyes. 

Molly was silent for a long moment, her head tipped to the side and her brow furrowed. 

Studying him. 

Just looking. 

Observing. 

“Oh, my god; are you asking me out to dinner?” 

“I might be.” 

“ Oh my god! Is a meteor on its way to wipe out the planet?” 

“Is it asking too much for you to stop saying oh my god? And for the record, I find none of this the least bit amusing.” 

“Do you hear me laughing?” she said, deathly serious. 

He cleared his throat. “So?” 

“So?” 

“That thing I just asked; you know?” 

“No, I most certainly do not know!” she snapped. “In fact, Sherlock, I’m busy and whatever this is that you are trying to accomplish, you will have to do it without me. So, if you are faking you own death, again, or running away from the police, again, it will just have to wait. I am meant to be in the morgue and I’m late!” 

She walked off, shaking her head. 

“Fine! Go to the morgue, then,” called Sherlock, after her, in a huff. “See if I care!” 

And then… 

…after an hour at the Costa down the road drinking three double espressos… 

… and three cigarettes. 

And two texts from Mary. 

And one from John. 

And one from his dad. 

And after another cigarette… 

He swept into the morgue. 

He took three giant steps and keeping well back, stood before Molly… and the open body cavity of Mr. Rendell… 

“Molly.” 

“You’ve been smoking. You know I hate that smell in my morgue.” 

“You can hardly object to one—” from behind her safety goggles and face shield, Molly looked up and made a doubtful face— “ok, three, possibly four---anyway, Molly.” 

“Yes, Sherlock.” 

“I-I was perfectly serious before and I was _still_ wondering, if you would have dinner with me.” 

“Were you? Why.” 

He groaned and counted to ten. 

“I am very interested in hearing about your recent trip to America.” 

“Oh really? Are you sure that’s the only reason?” 

“Oh, for god’s sake!” He breathed in—then out—and this time he counted to three. 

“Can’t I just want to catch up. With you. And. Hear all your news.” 

“About Darius?” 

“Oh, yes, the _Navy_ Seal!” added a petulant Sherlock, rolling his eyes. “How could I forget?” 

“Yes, the Navy Seal who is not gay or a psychopath or boring. No, Darius, a lovely man who welcomed me into his beautiful home to meet his charming wife and two adorable little girls and who all treated me with nothing but kindness and generosity, unlike some I could name.” 

Oh. 

“Oh.” 

“Yes, oh.” 

Molly took up her bone saw to cut through her subject’s breast plate. When she was finished and the buzzing had stopped Sherlock was quick to add-- 

“In my defence, you did make it seem like—like he was Mr. Perfect.” 

“Yes, because silly Molly can’t possibly have a man like her or treat her well without Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes sweeping in and interfering.” She went back to looking over her work. 

“Yes, yes, you are absolutely right, you can’t have a man without Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes sweeping in and interfering, because—“ (and deep breath in) “because Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes, who, by the way, is also not gay, or a psychopath--because of all the sociopathy—and who is not boring--which is not really relevant at the moment—is an ass.” 

This caused Molly to glance up. 

“Molly,” he continued. “I do realize that at times, I can be incredibly unkind and selfish and a little dismissive…” 

“Don’t forget childish.” 

“Oh, well spotted,” he grumbled. He then took another deep breath. “What I need to say to you is, I am sorry if I have hurt you and been indifferent and insensitive, but, Molly, you were gone. For thirty-three days… and I would really like, really, really like it if you wouldn’t go away for that long ever again, because—” 

“Because?” 

“Because I think—no--I know, that I would miss you and… I love you and I can’t go another day without you in it.” 

There was a long pause. Molly laid down her bone saw. 

“Ummmm--ok.” 

Sherlock balked. 

“Um ok?” 

“Well, I mean, you are finished with your speech, aren’t you? Because, if you are, I really need to get this done and have the report on Mike’s desk by four.” 

“Molly, I just poured my heart out and all you can say is: Um ok, I have a report to turn in?” 

She blew out an impatient breath. “I get it, Sherlock!” 

“Get what?” 

“Isn’t this is the point where you usually say: surprise, this is for a case and I will die if I don’t say this or John will die if I don’t say that, and then Moriarty pops out from somewhere, although, I hope not, and threatens to kill you. Or perhaps John. Or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. And then you dash off and then the next thing I know, a black car is following me down the road and your brother pops out and offers me a bribe for covering up something you did. Probably something illegal. And then no one sees you for a year until you turn up back here looking for spare feet and thumbs. But saying you love me, that’s new. It was a nice touch.” 

“You don’t believe me?” 

“Well, since that time you slept in crack house, got high, peed in the jar, and faked a fiancé—” 

“You don’t believe me!” 

“--it’s sort of your M.O.” 

“What do I have to do to make you believe me?” 

Molly scoffed out a humourless laugh and rolled her eyes. “At this point, Sherlock, I won’t believe you—“ (making air quotes with her bloody gloved hands) “– _feel_ anything for me until you are standing naked in my living room, offering to stick your tongue down my throat.” 

Sherlock blinked rapidly for several long moments. He started to back out the room. 

“Right. Right. Well—I should let get back to—right. I guess I’ll see you—right. Bye, then.” 

“Ok, Sherlock, bye, “said Molly, picking up the bone saw and getting back down to work… 

…until several hours later, when… 

…Molly’s hands were shaking violently as she accepted a steaming cup of tea from Lestrade. 

“Is there anyone I should call? Your mum, perhaps, or what about Mary?” 

“Or the sex crimes unit,” said Sally Donovan, quietly, from behind her hand, that only Lestrade could hear. 

“Oh god,” Molly sniffed, “please don’t call Mary. She’ll only tell John and John will—oh god, am I going to jail?” she cried, the elastic from her ponytail long gone, her hair wild, and mascara running down her cheeks. 

“Nobody’s going to jail,” said Lestrade, with a stern look at Sally. “Technically _he_ was the intruder and you were well within you rights to defend yourself.” 

“Good job with that wine bottle, by the way,” said Sally, delightfully. “That’ll leave a mark.” 

“So, let’s go over this again, shall we?” probed Greg. 

“As I said, I’d just got home. I had a curry takeaway and was opening a bottle of wine, when, I was startled. I had no idea he was—oh god, is he dead? Am I going to jail for murder?” 

“No one’s dead yet,” added Sally, unhelpfully, “So, technically it’s attempted murder.” 

“Oh god,” Molly wailed, pitifully. 

“That’s enough from you, Donovan,” said Lestrade to his sergeant. He took three tissues out of a tissue box on the table and handed them to the crying woman. “Now Molly, you do understand why I have to ask. It’s police procedure to—investigate any possible wrong-doings.” Greg huffed, half from tiredness, half from disbelief. “He was found unconscious, in your flat, naked, after all.” 

“But,” cried Molly, “there-there weren’t any wrong-doings.” 

“Molly, Sherlock’s in hospital because of this. You also know well enough who his brother is and the company that he keeps. And then there’s his parents down in the A&E asking questions... questions which I must be get the answers to.” 

“Oh god, his poor parents. I’ve murdered their son!” 

“Just calm down, Molly. Take a deep breath. Now, back to why he was naked.” 

“I told him to.” 

“So, you invited him over?” 

Her eyes shifted back and forth for a moment. “Technically… yes.” She paused, then rushed to add, “But I didn’t expect he would—I was surprised—he caught me off guard. I sort of… reacted.” 

“So,” said Greg, sighing loudly, “let me see if I’ve got this right. Sherlock, planned some sort of, what, romantic evening—“ (Lestrade looked extremely sceptical here) “--at your flat, at your invitation? You didn’t know about this plan ahead of time, since it was meant to be a surprise? You came home with dinner and got out a bottle of wine. At which time Sherlock Holmes—“ 

“—a _naked_ Sherlock Holmes,” said Sally, with a shiver. 

“—in a state of undress greeted you because you—because he--? 

“Loves me!” said Molly, with a gasp, her crying suddenly stopping as she came to the unexpected realization. 

“So, you are saying, you and he are, what? Boyfriend and girlfriend, friends with benefits, partners—” 

“--psychopath and groupie,” whispered Sally. 

“—some sort of couple of unknown definition. Just give me something to put into my report.” 

“She will have to get back to you about that, Detective Chief Inspector,” said Mycroft Holmes, appearing suddenly, as if from the ether. 

“She will?” said Lestrade, turning towards the door. 

“I will?” Molly asked, looking up. 

“Yes, she will. She is needed elsewhere.” 

“Sherlock’s ok, then,” asked Lestrade. 

“A mild concussion. He’s had far worse. There’s no need for you to trouble Miss Hooper further.” 

“I’m in the middle of an official enquiry,” cried Lestrade. 

Glancing at his packet watch, Mycroft began to address the police inspector as a High Lord addresses his illiterate serfs. 

“In ten minutes time, you will receive a telephone call from the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, whom I had dinner with her just this evening, informing you that certain activities between one Sherlock Holmes and one Dr Molly Hopper are protected under the statutes of the Official Secrets Act. Any further probing on your part or your colleagues (with a raised eyebrow in Sally Donovan’s direction) will constitute a breach of national security. Subsequent _meddling_ would, for your part, result in a punishment extremely injurious to your career.” 

“Of course, it would,” said Lestrade, irritated and throwing up his hands in defeat. 

“Then, I’m free to go?” asked Molly, uncertainly, wiping the snot from her red nose. 

“As a goldfish,” smirked Mycroft Holmes, looking simultaneously bored and unconcerned. 

After Donovan and a grumbling Lestrade had cleared out, Molly addressed Mycroft. 

“Are your parents very angry?” 

“According to them, you are their hero. They’ve already started picking out baby names.” 

“Sorry, what?” 

“Never mind that right now.” 

“Mr. Holmes, you must know, I didn’t mean to hurt him; I never would have on purpose. I thought it was one of those weird games he like to—” 

“And this is your cue to stop any attempts at further elaboration. My car is downstairs to take you to Baker Street, or home if you prefer. I am meant to be picking up dinner for my brother, but I am sure you are hungry, as well; your curry takeaway is likely spoiled by now.” 

“Do you mind if I take Sherlock his dinner? I’d like to see him and take him something that he especially likes, if I may, so I can explain. There is a place, but I don’t know the address, and it’s late and probably closed, but you’ll know where it is.” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“Sherlock once said something about putting up some shelves.” 

“Say no more.” 

***** 

Mrs. Hudson was complaining when Molly pushed open the partially open door. 

“--always running about, getting yourself into trouble. Honestly, I don’t know how your mother puts up with it; my nerves, Sherlock. Who was it this time: drug dealer, bank robber, Russian spy?” 

“Domestic disturbance; it was a simple misunderstanding,” replied Sherlock, his eyes clapping onto Molly’s as she entered the room. “The woman is a lot stronger than she looks; the man likely deserved it.” 

Sitting in his chair, his legs crossed, with a large plaster on his forehead, he smiled broadly, causing Mrs. Hudson to follow his line of sight. 

“Molly! What are you doing here so late?” 

“I’ve brought dinner.” She held up a greasy bag. “Fish and Chips. Extra portions. Enough for all of us. Oh, and wine.” She held up a bottle of white. 

“Fish, chips and a blunt instrument,” said Sherlock, archly. “I don’t know whether to be happy or terrified.” 

Molly looked at the floor. “I’m so sorry about--.” 

“None for me,” said Mrs Hudson. “I’ve taken my evening soother. Mixing it with wine wouldn’t be a good idea. But, I told Mycroft I’d wait up with Sherlock until he got back.” 

“Oh, he’s back and gone. Dropped me off. I said I’d look after Sherlock tonight.” 

“Well he’s got a bit of a concussion, he needs keeping up.” 

“Oh, no worries, there, Mrs Hudson. I have no intention of letting him sleep.” Sherlock’s amused eyes snapped back to Molly. “N-No,” she continued, stuttering. “Wh-what I meant was, not what I said, I mean—I’ll keep watch over him for the night.” 

Mrs Hudson patted her on the shoulder. “Well, suit yourself. I’m off. Sherlock, you be nice to Molly.” 

“I’m always nice to Molly.’ 

“No, you’re not!” said both Molly and Mrs Hudson at the same time. 

“Then, I will be sure to be nice from here on out.” 

“Is that a promise,” asked Molly, with a small, uncertain smile. 

“No, it is my vow,” said Sherlock, his voice deep, his eyes holding Molly’s, firm. 

Mrs Hudson looked between them, a suspicion forming. She went to the door. 

“Right. My evening soother usually knocks me out good and proper. I won’t hear a thing. All night. Or in the morning. Possibly into the early afternoon.” 

“Good night, Mrs Hudson!” snapped Sherlock, not appreciating her presumptions. 

She pulled the door closed with a loud click and they were alone. 

“I am so sorry Sherlock. If I had—” 

“I do love fish and chips when there hot. Why don’t you lay the table? There are plates in the kitchen. 

Molly went into the kitchen, set the bag of fish and chips down, removed her coat and handbag and washed her hands, the entire time, talking, apologizing. 

“It’s all my fault. I didn’t expect—I am so sorry. Your mother and father are never going to speak to me again. Did they drive in especially? Are they staying the night in London?” 

Sherlock got up, walked up to her, and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. 

“Who’s asking all the questions now?” 

She pulled away, to look for forks. 

“Well, of course they are staying the night. Who drives back home so late in the evening? I’ll go to them first thing tomorrow. Apologize. Explain.” 

She got up on her tiptoes and reached for the plates from a high cupboard. Sherlock got them down for her instead. 

“Explain what exactly? Why their naked son was in your flat? That’s bound to be interesting.” 

She took the plates out of his hands putting them on the table. 

“It’s the truth, isn’t it. I mean—” 

He put his index finger across her lips, shushing her, willing her to calm down. 

“There’s no need, Molly. My ridiculous brother always has a ready excuse for starting wars or overturning foreign governments. I think he can be trusted to find a suitable excuse to assuage the worries of two old people.” 

She removed his finger and stepped away. 

“Well, I still want to apologize to them. I apologized to Mycroft already.” 

He quirked his brow at that. “You’re calling him Mycroft, now? What happened to Mr. Holmes?” 

“Oh,” she smiled broadly, “I think we are finally friends.” 

Sherlock thought on that for a moment. 

“Of course, I see; you’ve nearly killed his little brother. You’re his _favourite_ person now.” 

“Or, it may have something to do with telling him how much Danielle really misses him and how she couldn’t stop looking at the last bouquet of flowers he sent her. He’s probably half way across the Atlantic by now.” 

”And, so Mycroft Holmes gets a happy ending. What do I get? The girl, I hope.” 

You should know, Sherlock, that one speech, a bit of nakedness, and my possible incarceration does not a relationship make. We need to have a long talk about boundaries and respect and honesty. And… and other things that I can’t think of right this minute, but I reserve the right to bring up when I need to.” 

He smiled. “But you’ll give me a chance because you like me.” 

“Yes, Lord help, me, I will give you a chance because I like you.” 

Is there any chance that I can get you to love me?” 

Molly rolled her eyes. As if he didn’t already know. “Shut up, Sherlock, sit down, and eat your dinner.” 

She served up the fish and chips and started to open the wine. 

“Molly, since we are starting a new relationship based on boundaries and respect and honesty--” 

“Yes.” 

“--because everyone just presumes a thing and then the glasses come out and it’s right there in front of you and no one ever notices that I don’t indulge—ever.” 

“That's called a tangent, by the way.” 

“Will you please just let me tell you this because it’s something very important.” 

“Oh, what is it?” she asked, as she set a glass of Chardonnay down in front of him. 

“Molly, I really don’t like wine.” 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note for unfamiliar readers... non-UK based readers (a glossary, of sorts)  
> \--Pret (A Manger) is a sandwich shop (London has these FABULOUS sandwich shops!) Don't ever get the Prawn Mayonnaise, because they are all MINE!!  
> \--A&E (Accident and Emergency) is the Emergency room  
> There's probably some other UK-isms I've slipped in... or left out, so let me know if you read something you don't understand. I'm an American BTW, and this wasn't Brit-picked. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience and your willingness to continue reading after so long an absence. You are the best and I appreciate the love that you've shown my humble little story!


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